


let me be with the stars

by honeyreynolds



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, world's worst ghost whisperer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17949647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyreynolds/pseuds/honeyreynolds
Summary: Everyone believes the way they died is the worst way to go. In Klaus' professional opinion, they were usually wrong.Another Saturday night, another ghost that won't let go. Klaus doesn't even get paid for this.





	let me be with the stars

**Author's Note:**

> title from the neighbourhood's [r.i.p. 2 my youth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQvC7IEn1Y4) bc I have the creative depth of a teaspoon
> 
> this is more of an exercise in figuring out klaus' voice for a longer, thoroughly better fic so. uh. enjoy?

Everyone believes the way they died is the worst way to go. In Klaus' professional opinion, they were usually wrong. He'd played telephone for some truly horrific deaths - decapitation by helicopter blade, drowning in molasses, consensual cannibalism gone wrong - so it's somewhat difficult to sympathise with the ghost bawling her eyes out beside him at the bus stop when he knows her death was entirely preventable.

Ben is glaring at him. Prick.

"It's not my fault she didn't wear a seatbelt," Klaus mutters, raising his cigarette and taking a long pull. At the other end of the bench an elderly lady shoots him a strange look, but he can't be sure if that's for the mumbling or the sequin skirt he's wearing that he picked up from the thrift store on 22nd street last week. Klaus shoots her an enthusiastic grin and waves. She quickly grabs her bag and shuffles further away, throwing him one last wary glance.

"Would it kill you to be nice?" Ben asks. The ghost has fallen to her bloodied, scraped knees and is wailing like she's being stabbed over and over again. It's starting to give Klaus a headache; to be fair, he hasn't eaten in god knows how long and hasn't taken anything for longer, so that probably plays into things too. A dead teenager keening on the sidewalk doesn't exactly help, though, so Klaus reluctantly coughs and wiggles his fingers in her direction.

"Uh. Yoo-hoo? Hello?"

The ghost makes a noise like a wounded animal. Klaus sighs.

"Hey, um. I'm Klaus," he gestures to himself with his cigarette, then to his left, "and that's my brother, Ben. He's dead. I'm not, which he thinks is crazy, because I should have died, like, five times in the last couple of days. And I can see you, so if you could, y'know, be a little quieter that'd be nice. Or whatever."

"Klaus," Ben hisses, but before he can continue the ghost's crying comes to a wet, muffled stop. She lifts her head, short hair matted in blood and dirt, part of a side-view mirror stuck in her crown.

It catches the street light when she sniffs. "You can see me?"

"Yeah," Klaus says, sitting up a little. "Yeah, I have a thing. Long story; you don't want to know. So, uh..." He takes another drag and squints at her. She blinks back, owlish. "Car accident, huh?"

He vaguely registers Ben muttering “ _Jesus Christ_ ” before he disappears into the midnight ether. He'll be back, he always is. Klaus is pretty sure Ben is tied to him or some shit, forever haunting his footsteps like it’s _his_ fault he died. Sometimes it’s fun to have your dead brother hanging off your shoulder, but most of the time it's depressing as hell. And, for the record, it’s especially a pain in the ass when he wants to get laid and Ben’s just standing there in the corner all judgey and mortified, like _Klaus_ is the one keeping him in the room.

The ghost picks herself off the ground and perches herself on the bench. "My mom's going to kill me," she says softly, and okay, sure, sue him, but Klaus laughs. Death jokes are still funny even when you've heard all the best ones a hundred times before.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” He turns to her fully and props his chin on his upturned palm. Up close her injuries are worse; there’s a blackened bruise half-bloomed across her chest, one last touch from an airbag. “Why is your mom going to kill you, even though you’re already dead?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m grounded.”

Klaus winces. “Ouch,” he exhales, blowing smoke right through her. The air where it touches her form shivers momentarily, going electric blue at the edges and leaking outwards; _phosphones_ , he remembers, _when you rub your eyes so hard the whole world turns into light_. He used to think that kind of thing was magical - this totally mundane, extra special superpower he only shared with seven billion other people.

“I was dropping my brother home before going out,” the ghost says, ignoring him. Her elbows have started to shake in tiny, panicked flutters. “I was just checking my phone.”

“Jesus, don’t that have PSA’s about that kind of thing nowadays? Don’t Tweet and drive?”

“There was another car - I was only looking down for a second -”

Part of Klaus wishes Ben were still there, just so he could look over at him like, _see? Told you_. “Well, the good news is that your brother isn’t here, so he’s alive. Probably.”

She whips her head around and glares, a nerve finally hit. “Probably?” she repeats, voice sharp.

“Probably,” Klaus says, flicking the last bits of ash from his cigarette. “But what do I know?”

“Aren’t you supposed to - I don’t know - guide me towards the light?”

Klaus tips his head back and giggles. “Oh, fuck me, that’s a good one. Haven’t heard that since I was a kid. _Guide you towards the_ \- are you Catholic or something?” His body convulses with laughter, lungs tight and throat wheezing. “Fucking hell.”

The ghost unfolds her arms and braces her hands on the bench. “You could have just said no,” she snaps, fingers curling around the weathered plastic. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a real asshole?”

“Oh, all the time,” Klaus laughs, wiping an errant tear from his cheek. “Hey, you know what? It’s not like you’re _dead_ dead. I’ve met some dead people, right, and no one gives a shit that they’re gone. But you?” He points at her with the glowing nub of his cigarette and draws a circle of light around her pinched features. “You’ve got people who care, so you’re not really gone. Your brother will probably start some bullshit charity in your name; nothing motivates a guy like a dead girl. No offense.”

The ghost makes a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. “Can’t you just _help_ me?”

Klaus tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and slams his heel down on the embers as hard as it takes to kick someone’s skull in. He’d know, after all. It’s all about the angle. “You should have died when I was a kid,” he says mildly. “That ship sailed a _long_ time ago.”

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A bus pulls around the corner and hobbles to the stop, its headlights throwing the road into sharp relief. Sometime during their one-sided conversation the clouds had unburdened themselves, rain turning the asphalt into a thick slice of glittering geode that rises to meet Klaus’ tired, stinging eyes. He raises a hand, reflexively, and by the time the light has passed the ghost beside him has disappeared.

The old lady is clambering onto the bus. Klaus pats his pockets for change; no dice. The driver peers around their seat and shouts something incoherent at him - a question, maybe, or more likely a warning - and Klaus flaps his hand about until the bus doors rasp closed.

The bus idles, just for a moment. Just long enough for Klaus to spot the ghost staring at him through the window, her middle finger pressed against the glass.

He grins widely and returns the favour.

“You could have helped her, you know.”

Klaus hauls himself off the bench and starts off down the street. There’s a bar nearby that’s open til the early hours of the morning; he’ll order a glass of water and crash in one of booths. Then - whatever. If he could predict the future, he wouldn’t be talking to thin air.

“Shut up, Ben,” he murmurs, tugging his jacket tighter around his shoulders.

The night says nothing. He carries on, feet moving on instinct against the city’s leylines, and breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://honeyreynolds.tumblr.com)


End file.
